Ragnar the Red
by MaceWindovahkiin117
Summary: Once again there's a hero named Ragnar the Red, but this time no shield maiden will cut off his head!
1. Chapter 1

"Please, spare a coin?" Ragnar pleaded desperately. The noblewoman simply walked past, looking uncomfortably in the other direction. "I need to eat, just like everyone!" Ragnar called after her.

"You know," Ragnar heard someone behind him. "People just want to see you fight, like you did a few weeks ago." He turned around and saw a hooded man standing near his bucket, flipping a gold coin repeatedly. He wasn't a local, but rather looked like a traveler. His boiled-and-studded leather armor told Ragnar that he'd be the type of person who knew his way around a fight, but he carried no weapons. Finally, the man didn't catch his coin, but let it fall into the bucket. "So do it. Fight."

Ragnar knew that this was an easy way to make money. He was quite a good fist fighter. But the last time he had put together a ring to fight in, he had killed someone, and spent the next week in the Riften Jail. From then on, nobody would give him any gold, and he was getting a bit spangly. Of course, the local innkeeper had given him half a loaf of bread every day out of pity, and even every once in a while given him some goat or some mead, but it was hardly enough to flourish on. He wasn't sure if he wanted to fight again, because he wasn't sure he would win, what with his receding strength, and also because he didn't want to risk seriously injuring someone.

The hooded man saw the look on Ragnar's face, and dropped nine more coins into the bucket. "That's just a taste of what you'll get, should you fight again." Ragnar, afraid that the traveler might change his mind, darted forward and snatched the bucket off the ground. Inside, though, instead of ten coins there were fifty. Ragnar's eyes widened. Suddenly, he was much more eager to fight.

"Ah, yes," the stranger seemed to remember something. "Can't have you fighting in that state." He suddenly cast some sort of healing spell, and Ragnar was returned to his former strength, and wasn't so hungry anymore. "Ready?" The man asked.

"Always." Ragnar was delighted to find that his voice had returned to its former deep, powerful boom that it once was. On that note, the stranger moved into the central marketplace, right next to where Ragnar was begging, and called out.

"The great and powerful Ragnar has decided to return to his fighting career. I need all of you to move your market stands outside the square... ah, circle, to make way for the fights." The merchants looked reluctant, but Ragnar supposed that they wanted to see him fight. They, with the help of the stranger, moved all of their market stands out of the lowered circle onto the higher tier, and resumed selling. The stranger then found some carts and discarded fences and blocked off the four entrances to the marketplace, leaving Ragnar to hop over the wall.

"Who will be the first to challenge the champion?" The stranger looked around the crowd.

"Alright," Someone finally said, "hundred coins says I can knock this bloke into the canal." A man stepped forward and hopped over the wall into the ring. He was large, large enough that he stood head and shoulders above Ragnar's average build. He had no hair, but a long, jagged scar on the side of his head. One of his earlobes was missing, and the shadow of a beard accentuated the pale scars on his jaw. He had a hard brown-eyed gaze that would frighten any troll. Ragnar looked weak and haggard by comparison. He had long shaggy black hair and a full untrimmed beard. His eyes were nowhere near as hard as the other man's, but were rather a light blue, harmless looking color. He wasn't bulky, but rather had what most would call archer muscles, which were wiry and difficult to recognize. Those with archer muscles looked no stronger that your run-of-the-mill fisherman or cook or farmer, but were most always much stronger. This was the case with Ragnar, and despite the sharp size contrast, he held no fear for the larger man. In fact, he almost felt contempt. No doubt the brute would use strength alone, whereas Ragnar's smaller stature would allow him to move quickly and with almost frustrating finesse.

"Lower it to fifty and you're on." Ragnar replied to the challenge. "I don't want to take a full day's wage from you." The larger man growled, and the stranger knew that he wouldn't wait for the call. Even as the man was charging toward Ragnar, he yelled quickly.

"Fifty coins is the bet, Ragnar versus this brute! Go!" 'This brute' reached Ragnar, swinging wildly. Ragnar ducked under two punches, and threw four rapid jabs into the large man's gut. He bent over, and Ragnar hopped backward, waiting for the next attack. This time, the giant tried to tackle Ragnar, but he simply stepped to the side at the last moment, leaving the man to slam into the low marketplace wall. He spun around, angry, but didn't charge. This time, recognizing a worthy opponent, the huge man shuffled forward warily, not giving Ragnar any momentum to use against him. Ragnar waited calmly, already with a plan in his mind. The plan was to use his best finishing move, which was also his fanciest-looking attack. The brute attacked, but Ragnar once again ducked. He then grasped the man's shoulders, pulled himself into the air, and kicked him in the face. He used the push-off to turn a backflip, landing a few meters from his opponent.

Blood streamed from the man's broken nose, and he swayed before toppling onto his already damaged face. The hooded stranger counted out fifty coins from the brute's purse, and dropped them into Ragnar's bucket.

"Fifty gold for Ragnar!" the stranger announced. By now the small crowd that had gathered was quite sizable. A few people cheered, but nobody else joined in. "Next challenger?"

"I've got a hundred. That a good bet?" To Ragnar's surprise, it was a Riften guard that stepped forward to challenge him. Ragnar shrugged in response.

"Sir," the stranger said, "you'll need to remove your armor." Ragnar was wearing torn threadbare trousers and nothing else, and the stranger thought it necessary to get rid of the guard's huge advantage.

"Of course," the guard said, without a touch of reluctance. "Would've done it anyhow." With that, he removed his purple surcoat, then his helmet, then his scaled armor, and his steel greaves and gauntlets. Finally, the guard removed his tunic. He was absolutely ripped. This time, Ragnar was a bit nervous. The guard wasn't massive, like his previous opponent, but was just as strong-looking and would be about as fast as Ragnar. He would have to start slow.

"And what's your name, guardsman?"

"Matilda." The guard uttered a short laugh. Matilda had been the shield maiden who had beheaded the Ragnar of legend, Ragnar the Red. He was obviously very confident. "No, no. I'm Heiman."

"Alright. Heiman versus Ragnar! One hundred gold pieces is the prize! Begin!" Heiman threw a straight punch immediately, but Ragnar dodged to the side. Heiman turned and threw a sideways kick at Ragnar. Ragnar rolled under the kick, and punched Heiman's shoulder blade. He stumbled forward, but recovered quickly. Ragnar pressed his advantage, throwing kicks and punches so fast that Heiman couldn't counter, only block or dodge. Finally, Ragnar lowered one of his kicks and swept Heiman to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, and lunged forward to try to grab Ragnar's shoulders. Ragnar caught the guard's wrists, pushing them out and letting the guard fly into his knee. His breath came out in an explosive _WHOOSH!_ and he bent over. Ragnar clasped his hands and put them on the back of Heiman's head, holding it in place while Ragnar's other knee came up and broke his nose. The guard reeled backward, and crashed into the well at the center of the market circle. Before Ragnar could pull him to his feet and resume the assault, he yelled.

"Yield! I yield!" He stood up and smiled painfully. "Best fight I've had in years." He handed over his hundred gold, and limped from the ring, re-donning his armor.

"One hundred gold to Ragnar!" The hooded stranger called out. "Who's got two hundred to bet?" Someone stepped forward, hopped over the wall, and dropped a large coin purse into the stranger's hand.

"All in." He said. "Name's Delvin Mallory." Ragnar knew who this was. It was a senior member of the Thieve's Guild in Riften, and was a force to be reckoned with.

"Delvin Mallory versus Ragnar!" The hooded stranger said. "Fight!" Delvin charged forward, then stopped, rolled, and ended up behind Ragnar. He dug his heel into Ragnar's shin, making him pitch forward. Ragnar rolled, returned to his feet, and waited for the next attack. Delvin threw six rapid punches, each of which was blocked by Ragnar. He followed these with an uppercut, but Ragnar buried his forearm into Delvin's elbow, straightening the arm and making the punch move straight up in front of Ragnar's face. He threw a punch into Delvin's ribs. The strike pushed the thief back several meters, and he took a moment to recover his breath. Ragnar shuffled forward, and the two men exchanged a flurry of blows, none of them landing, but all of them swift and strong. Eventually, both Delvin and Ragnar landed a hit, and both were pushed back a meter. Ragnar came forward with a kick, and Delvin took it under the chin. He flew back, landing flat on his butt. He stood and kicked the back of one of Ragnar's knees, leaving him to wave his arms and try to regain his balance. Delvin then pressed forward, pushing the bottom of his foot into Ragnar's chest, putting him on his back. He started to pick Ragnar back up, but he wasn't getting up. He caught Delvin's wrists, pulled him onto his foot, and heaved him backwards into the wall. Delvin slid to the ground, barely managing not to land on his head, and croaked.

"Yield." The stranger had been counting the coins in Delvin Mallory's purse, and announced the final number now.

"Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six... Eight hundred fifty-seven gold pieces for Ragnar!" This time, the entire crowd roared with approval. "Now, now," the stranger continued, "I have a special proposition for any three who would like to fight Ragnar. You each bet one hundred, three hundred for the three of you, and he bets nine hundred. If he wins, he gets the three hundred. If you win, you _each_ get three hundred. Who's brave enough?" Instantly, three shady-looking characters swaggered forward, hopping over the wall and cracking their knuckles. All three wore torn tunics that exposed the entirety of both arms, and tight woolen leggings that accentuated their leg muscles. They each wore tall boots with hard studded soles that rang on the cobbles. They also wore green or tan cowls that shadowed their faces, but none of them made any move to take them off. Ragnar almost didn't notice, but all three men had an odd-shaped bulge on one of their thighs.

"Okay, boys." The stranger noticed as well. "You'll have to give up your boots and weapons."

But Ragnar was fine with a fight to the death. Cheats like this deserved it. "No," he said, "they can keep them. To the death, then?" He asked. The three men looked delighted.

"Yeah. To the death." One said. "If you want to know who brought down this Ragnar, just give us a name."

"Like the Murder Brothers?" the hooded stranger muttered. "Fight!" Ragnar thought that the Murder Brothers was amusing, so he decided to call these men the Murder Triplets, seeing as how they all looked the same with their hoods up. The Murder Triplets all reached into their pockets and pulled out their various weapons. Murder One had a spear head, Murder Two had a cheese knife, and Murder Three had a small dagger. They started to spread out to surround Ragnar. He simply stood there and let them. Murder Two moved in first, from behind and to the right. He came in with an upward thrust toward his ribs. He spun, lightning-fast, and grabbed Murder Two's wrist, redirecting the cheese knife upward. He then spun under his outstretched arm and used the momentum of the strike to move the cheese knife down and under Murder Two's ribs into his right lung. Murder One and Murder Three moved in at the same time, from opposite directions. Murder Two wasn't dead, but he was well and truly out of the fight. Both of the remaining Murder Triplets swung at Ragnar's neck, so he simply ducked and their weapons collided. Ragnar reached up and grabbed Murder One's wrist, then elbowed him in the gut. As he bent over, Ragnar pulled the spearhead toward Murder Three, who hadn't recovered from Ragnar's sudden disappearance. It slid in between his ribs and killed him. Now it was only Murder One, and Ragnar had every intention of making this a very entertaining fight.

Murder One stood up, and grabbed Murder Three's dagger. Murder Two, much to Ragnar's surprise, stood up, having wrapped his wound with a leg of his trousers. They reached Ragnar, and each swung several times in the space of a second. Ragnar took a slash across the ribs, and yelled in pain. Blood soaked his chest, but the Murder Twins weren't done. He received a stab to the leg, a nick on his sternum, and a long cut from his forehead to his cheek. Finally, he dodged a cut and punched Murder Two in the stab wound. He blanched and staggered back, uttering a soft cry of pain. Murder One tried a downward stab at Ragnar with a reversed grip on the dagger, but Ragnar caught his wrist, spun the stab around, slid it into Murder One's heart, and turned to knee it in for good measure. He then crossed to Murder Two, simply took the cheese knife, and pushed him over. Then, much to the crowd's pleasure, Ragnar began to shave his beard with the bloody cheese knife. When Murder Two tried to get up, he stabbed him in the heart and resumed shaving.

"Three hundred to-" the stranger's voice was drowned out by the roar of applause. Out of somewhere in the crowd, someone began chanting.

"Ragnar the Red! Ragnar the Red! Ragnar the Red!" Soon, the whole crowd was shouting. "Ragnar the Red!" And Ragnar realized that he was mostly covered in blood. He looked out over the crowd, soaking in the name, and deciding that he liked it. Suddenly, he spotted the last person he'd expect to see watching a fight. The town bard. He was writing on a pad of parchment with a quill, thinking, muttering, crossing things out. Then, he stepped forward, pulling his lute from his back.

"I've done it!" And everyone quieted down. With that, the bard started to sing and play to the tune of the old Ragnar the Red song, but with different words.

 _Once again there's a hero named Ragnar the Red_

 _but this time no shield maiden will cut off his head!_

 _No, he'll dodge all your cuts and he'll break all your bones,_

 _this Ragnar the Red should be atop a throne!_

 _You challenge him if you've got no sense at all,_

 _all spectators will gather to witness your fall!_

 _Alone he will stand when he kills fifty men,_

 _they won't stand a chance, he will kill them and then..._

 _he'll topple your tower and break down your wall,_

 _you'll pray for your life, none will answer the call._

The crowd roared at the bard's impromptu song, and he bowed, then backed up and gestured at Ragnar.

The hooded stranger approached. "Looks like someone's popular in Riften. Final count's 1,357 gold pieces. Ready to go?"

"Where?" Ragnar was confused.

"To my manor. I'm going to train you."


	2. Chapter 2

From the moment they arrived at the hooded stranger's manor, Ragnar was impressed. He had several... what? Maids? Servants? He had two dogs, and a room dedicated to trophies. There were dragon skulls, stuffed trolls, even a giant! Ragnar didn't explore that room in detail, though, as the stranger led him to a back room.

It was lined with weapons. Real ones on the end walls, practice ones on the far wall. There were dummies and targets, and another stuffed troll.

"This is where you'll be training," the stranger said. "I'm Arlen, but you can just go ahead and call me sir." Ragnar was taken aback.

"I won't be calling you sir, as a matter of fact," Ragnar said.

"And why do you presume that?" Arlen humored him.

"Because I'm the fighter, I'm the one you'll be making money off of. You're the one who provides the food and the roof, who books me fights."

"Oh, you think I can't fight?" Arlen was annoyed now.

"No, you can't. I'll prove it."

Ragnar threw a punch, but Arlen dodged back. Arlen stepped forward, punched with his left hand. Ragnar was ready for it, blocking the punch swiftly. It was a feign, though, and Arlen redirected it and punched Ragnar in the stomach, lightning-fast. When Ragnar bent forward, Arlen grabbed his head and pulled it toward his knee, stopping it a centimeter from Ragnar's nose. He then spun Ragnar around and put him in a lock that left him still bending over, with his elbow locked, his arm behind him, and his hand in extreme pain.

"I'll let that slide, once. _Once._ Again, and you'll be back begging in Riften." Arlen wasn't joking.

"Yes, sir." Ragnar was embarrassed.

"Oh, that?" Arlen let Ragnar out of the hold, suddenly cheery. "You don't have to call me sir. You can call me Arlen, Harbinger, Dragonborn, Archmage, Listener, Nightingale, whatever."

Ragnar's eyes widened. "You're-"

"The Harbinger of the mighty Companions of Whiterun, the most powerful minor faction in the plains? Yes." Arlen didn't seem impressed by his own achievements.

"And-"

"The Dragonborn of legend who can consume the souls of dragons and use them to shout creatures and people to death? Yeah."

"And-"

"The Archmage of the College of Winterhold, the most powerful mage's school in all of Tamriel? That, too."

"You can't be-"

"The Listener, who listens to the Night Mother in order to carry out contracts for the Dark Brotherhood, the greatest organization that has ever existed? Yeah, that one's my favorite."

"And a-"

"Nightingale, one of the legendary thieves who answer only to the Daedric prince, Nocturnal and are more stealthy than any creature in Nirn, including the most shadowed of Khajiits? Of course."

Ragnar couldn't believe his ears. Here he was, standing before the single greatest man ever to walk Tamriel, and having just attacked him! He started to bow, but Arlen stopped him.

"Can we train, now?" Arlen asked.

"Yes, si-Dragonborn. But first, why?"

"So that you can accompany me." Arlen closed his eyes for a moment, concentrated, then 'tut'ed and walked off. Ragnar, unsure of whether to follow him, stayed rooted to the spot. Arlen returned a moment later with a purple book and a blue potion.

"Read this, drink this," he said. Ragnar, mystified, did both. As he finished reading the book, Arlen told him to cast the spell. Ragnar was unaware he'd just read a spell, and had just blundered through the strange language, but tried anyway. Before his eyes, a ghostly bow came from nowhere and landed in his hands. A slight weight increase could be felt on his back, and looked up to see a quiver of arrows. They were both spectral and seemed to be alight with purple fire.

"You can't get far without a weapon, now can you?" Arlen motioned to a target. Ragnar drew an arrow, nocked it without looking, although he'd never used a bow before, and fired at the target. The arrow was down and to the left of where he had aimed, but it was remarkably close to the center considering his lack of practice or skill. "Good shot. Could barely do it better myself." Ragnar ignored the praise, firing until he had exhausted his supply of arrows. By the end, there was a blooming cluster of phantom arrows blooming out from the center. Only a handful had gone into the center mark, but Ragnar was quite satisfied. He tried to recast the spell and replenish his arrows, but he couldn't. Arlen handed him a large pouch. It was filled with more blue potions.

Ragnar drank another, cast a spell, and fired at the target again. More went into the center marking than before, and Ragnar grew even more satisfied. He started casting and recasting the spell, making the cluster of arrows disappear and eaten through Arlen's supply of arrows. Soon, he found himself casting the spell without a potion, and was astonished by his progression. After a dozen or so quivers, Arlen returned.

He was dressed the same as he had left, only with a curved dagger on his left hip, a gray-and-black bow on his back, and a pair of gauntlets in his hand. He gave those to Ragnar.

"I've enchanted them. They'll let you hit harder and faster, and don't weigh anything, as you can already tell. Also, the studs on the knuckles seemed useful."

Ragnar looked them over. True, there were studs on the knuckles, and they didn't weigh anything. They were steel plate, and elbow-high, which would help Ragnar block weapons.

"I also have some clothes for you." Arlen gave Ragnar some trousers, boots, a tunic and a belt. The trousers were of dark gray wool, the boots soft black leather. The tunic was the same gray as the trousers, and the belt black. The belt had a Pouch of Collecting on it, which would allow Ragnar to carry anything, but be encumbered by only half its weight and none of its volume. Ragnar donned these and put on the gauntlets. They glowed red from within for a split second, then it faded. Ragnar instantly walked to a dummy and punched it. There was a splintering crack, and the hay-filled head of the dummy fell down is back, the wood beam that held it up shattered. Ragnar didn't stop, though, but punched the dummy's middle portion. Another crack, and hay spilled out behind it as it stooped over. Ragnar then picked it up, threw it across the room. It slammed into the opposite wall, slid down, and settled behind an archery target.

"These will do..." Ragnar cast his spectral bow and continued firing at the target. With his, if only slightly, enhanced strength, it was easier to pull back the bow and keep it still during the release. These both helped him to land most every arrow into the center marking of the target.

Arlen returned to the room several minutes later. Ragnar had been unaware he had left.

"Let's go," Arlen said, then strolled from the room. Ragnar followed, a bit surprised and confused. Arlen led him outside and to some stables. There were no horses, though. In one stall was an ebony archway with a purple film in it. In the other was a black pool. For the first time, Ragnar noticed that Arlen had changed his clothing. After spending so much time in Riften, Ragnar recognized the armor of the Thieve's Guild. This was gray, though, instead of brown. It was dull and dark, and in the evening half-light Arlen looked like a shadow. On the left shoulder was a red hand, painted there at some point. It was the symbol of the Dark Brotherhood. Arlen had combined his Guild Master status and his Listener status into one piece of armor. As Ragnar watched, Arlen simply strolled to the black pool and it began boiling. A jet-black horse climbed from the pool. It had red eyes, a black saddle, and black fur. Arlen mounted up, then looked at Ragnar in confusion.

"Well?" He asked, motioning to the archway. Ragnar turned, and found that a horse stood there. Not a horse, though, a black horse skeleton. It glowed purple from within, and its mane and tail were of the same purple fire as Ragnar's spectral bow. Fire trailed from its hooves, as well. He mounted the horse, and it set off after Arlen, who had already ridden several dozen meters. They rode through the pine forests of Falkreath, and emerged on the plains of Whiterun. They rode across those, into the mountains, and onto the snowy hills of Windhelm. Finally, they rode over another mountain, and found themselves on the icy shores of Winterhold.

But they didn't stop.

They rode past the town, the college, out over the glaciers. In the distance were more. Ragnar knew somehow that they had passed the extreme northern edge of any Skyrim or Tamriel map. Still, the two horses leaped from glacier to glacier. Finally, they reached a large ice spike jutting from the ground. They rode to the top, horses jumping from ice shelf to ice shelf. When they found the top, they were face-to-face with themselves. Arlen, the other Arlen, rode a white horse with blue glowing eyes. He wore white Thieve's Guild armor with a blue hand over the shoulder. He had a straight dagger and a white bow. The other Ragnar rode a white skeletal horse, with orange fire for a mane and tail. He wore white clothes and carried an orange spectral bow. Instantly, Arlen and Arlen dismounted, and their horses backed up. Ragnar and Ragnar drew back arrows, pointing them at each other.

"Kill him!" Arlen and Arlen yelled. "He and his friend plan to move into our world and take it over for themselves!" Ragnar-s released their arrows at each other, and jumped from their horses. White Ragnar fired an arrow at Gray Arlen, and White Arlen charged forward at Gray Ragnar. Ragnar released three arrows in rapid succession, and White Arlen blocked two. The last struck his right shoulder. Gray Arlen rolled under White Ragnar's arrow, and came up with his dagger. White Ragnar seemed not to have been attacked by White Arlen, so he knew not what to expect. The dagger pierced his heart and threw him from the glacier. Ragnar then dodged a few strikes from White Arlen before Gray Arlen stabbed him in the back.

Arlen looked up at the battle between horses.

"Shadowmere!" Arlen rushed to his horse's side and fought off the other one. Ragnar rushed to his skeletal horse's side, and pulled off the other horse's skull. It tumbled from the glacier. Ragnar then turned and fired an arrow at White Shadowmere. It slammed quivering into the horse's neck, and it fell dead.

"We're lucky." Arlen rejoined Ragnar. "Those men are the near opposite of us, a mirror image. But they are less inclined to fight where they come from. They haven't been battle-hardened as we have. We must be careful, though, for those who don't fight in our world fight fiercely in theirs. We will be hard-pressed to quell them."

"What?" Ragnar looked at Arlen with utter, helpless confusion.

"They're from a world, the mirror of ours, called Lyg. When we shift into that world, something will start. Something huge. Every creature there will go in search of a means to shift back to Tamriel, and they will overrun it. The only way to stop it is to kill everyone there."

"Won't that be difficult?" Ragnar asked. Both men mounted their horses. Arlen cast an unusual spell, and Ragnar found himself floating sideways, along with his horse. For a split second, Ragnar saw a strange wasteland, then a void, and finally the glacier again. This time, though, the snow was gray, the glaciers orange, the sky dark.

"Welcome to Lyg, Ragnar. Or, at least the area just north of Lyg."

"I asked a question." Ragnar reminded Arlen.

"Ah, yes. 'Won't that be difficult...' Well, the answer is yes. It will be difficult. In fact, it will be nearly impossible, and we are both sure to die."


	3. Chapter 3

For those of you who wish me to continue this story, I apologize. I have lost interest in this particular conflict, though I will introduce Ragnar the Second in a new story, _The Thalmor._ If you will please turn your attention to that, you will see the same characters in a, in my opinion, much more compelling and interesting storyline. Though, if you wish to start at the beginning of Arlen's journey as the Dragonborn, I suggest you read _The Legendary Arlen Shadowcloak_ first.


End file.
